


Mebi Oso Na Hit Choda Op Nodataim (May We Meet Again)

by LockerMice



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Clarke, Sad Clarke, Sorry Lexa, lexa - Freeform, not personal!, scrap that, seriously depressed clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7610266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LockerMice/pseuds/LockerMice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically just Clarke blabbering after Lexa's death. Short, not so sweet. (Sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mebi Oso Na Hit Choda Op Nodataim (May We Meet Again)

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: suicide is implied during this. Please, please take care of yourself, and don't read if you are in a bad place.

I loved a girl once. She had eyes like the sea. Not blue, no, she wasn’t like a child’s drawing, she wasn’t common. She had eyes like the sea after a storm. Green. Not the intense bottle green that you expect to find in this sort of story, but a light green. A green that could be mistaken for grey. But they’re not grey. They’re not gold either, although gold glimmers in them when she laughs, like the sun splintered into a thousand pieces and in a last ditch attempt for survival, hid in the depths of her eyes.

And her eyes were deep. Deeper than space, and deeper than the emotion a single human could ever feel. Her eyes were timeless, like she had lived a thousand lives and died a thousand deaths, each filled with life, with tragedy, with pain, laughter, hope, with sorrow.

But she hadn’t. She had lived one lifetime, and she had green eyes.

She had dark hair. Not midnight hair, not chestnut hair, not ebony hair, her hair was dark. Except sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes, when the sun caught her hair at the right angle, she was wreathed in flames, sparks flying up to the sky. Sparks and flame and raw emotion burned. But she never showed it. And then the angle would be gone, and her hair was dark again. But I was always mesmerised when her hair caught fire for a split second. And then it was dark.

Her hair was always braided back, small intricate braids that her nimble fingers had twisted into being. She’d twisted the dark strands, twisted, braided, weaved, pulled and tied the darkness into intricate designs that made her seem more regal.

Except, around me, sometimes she’d undo the braids. She wouldn’t be regal, even if it was just for a few moments. Her eyes would sparkle, and her emotions would fly across her face, like a thousand coloured stars, all falling from the heavens together, trailing a streak of light behind them, like they were desperately reaching back to the sky, begging it to take them back.

And then something would happen, someone would say something, and minutes later, the braids were back, she was royal, and the stars had fallen. No more colours lit up her face, and her eyes didn’t sparkle.

She was slender. But not weak, no. She was slender in the way that a cat is slender. She was strong in her slenderness. When she moved, it was with elegance, she wouldn’t walk, she would flow like water, when she danced it was like she was an eagle, wheeling and tumbling in the sky.

But she didn’t dance with music. She danced with swords. She danced with knifes, she danced with spears. She made her own music with the clash of metal on metal and the thud of leather on leather and fist on skin, and feet on the ground. When she fell, she didn’t fall, she dove into a graceful dive and rolled back onto her feet, never missing a beat, never off a note, never up a pitch, or down a key.

She wore paint on her face. Paint darker than the darkest night. People said it looked like fangs. Like claws, like blades, like blood. It didn’t. It looked like wings, gracefully extended over her eyes, feathers on her cheeks. They made her eyes seem brighter, her face less sad. It made her more regal, more powerful and more in control than any weapon.

I once loved a girl. She had green eyes and dark hair and she danced with knives. But it was a gun that took her away from me. It wasn’t a dance that took her away from me, a dance that had one wrong step, one wrong note, one wrong beat. It was a cold, hard metal slug that ripped through her silken skin and warm body.

She bled black over me, over my hands, my clothes, my soul, my heart. She bled and she bled and she bled, and then she didn’t, because she was gone. She was gone, and I was covered in her blood.

I didn’t believe it. She wasn’t gone. Her blood covered my heart, my soul, my hands and my clothes, but not my eyes.

I saw her that night. That night I climbed onto the roof of the tallest building, just so I could see the stars that danced in the sky. The sky that lit her hair on fire, and made her turn her face to the sun. The sky that brought me to her, and the sky that took her away. It was the sky that I’d met her under, the sky I’d loved her under and the sky that I’d lost her under.

I hated that sky.

I loved her.

I saw her, standing in front of me. Her waist was small, her eyes were green, her hair was dark and let loose, floating around her face like a cloud of butterflies. She wore her wings on her cheeks and a smile on her face. She looked happy. She told me it wasn’t the sky's fault. She told me many things that night.

The last thing I ever told her, was that her fight was over.

The last thing she ever told me was that we’d meet again.

And I long for that day. I long, I beg and I pray for that day. The day where I see her again, her eyes as green as the sea, her hair as dark as the depths of space and her wings darker than the darkest night.

So _mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim_ _Leksa._

May we meet again Lexa.

But _mebi oso na hit choda nau Leksa_.

May we meet each other now, Lexa.

And I jump.

 


End file.
